


i feel like i know you (but we never met)

by sithblood



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining, Slice of Life, aka the fic in which i ponder the transience of love life and longing with my favourite k boys, cheeky little bit of memento mori, disproportionate and frankly salacious use of metaphor, everyone's from namhae, i have a thing for rare pairings dont i ha ha ha..., san is a loser and also a virgin lol sorry, summertime, yeosang is a ghost, yunho is whipped
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28019754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithblood/pseuds/sithblood
Summary: Choi San is twenty-one years old, still living in his parents' house in Namhae, and painfully, embarrassingly closeted. There's also a ghost living in his back garden.He doesn't think these things have anything to do with each other. (The ghost disagrees).
Relationships: Choi San/Jeong Yunho, Choi San/Kang Yeosang
Kudos: 9





	1. i can't open my mouth and forget how to talk

It begins when San is nine years old.

The sun is shining, the weather is the nicest it’s been in weeks, and there’s a boy sat cross-legged underneath the persimmon tree at the bottom of the Choi family’s garden. This is problematic, San realises, for a few reasons. One – he’s never seen this guy before in his life, and Namhae’s not all that big of a place. Everyone knows everyone knows everyone here, but San’s looking down at this strange boy at the end of his garden and his face is completely unfamiliar. Two – there’s no way to reach the back of their house without coming in through the front door and they haven’t had any guests today, so unless this guy can teleport or tunnel underneath several miles of earth San has no idea how he even got here. Three – he’s currently home alone, admittedly only for a few minutes while his mum buys their lunch from the corner shop, but still. He’s not sure he could put up much of a fight against a potential robbery or kidnapping; he’s only nine.

“You just gonna stand there forever or something?” the boys says without looking up, chin resting lazily atop one of his palms. San jumps, leaping back over the threshold to cower behind the back door, heart racing nervously in his chest (although he would never admit it). He hears the boy curse, muttering something under his breath that he doesn’t catch over the thunderous racing of his own pulse. Through the frosted glass San watches as the human-sized blur slumped up against the tree stands, growing larger as it starts approaching the house. San thinks about phoning the police.

“Hey, kid; I’m not gonna hurt you, seriously. You don’t need to hide.”

If San were older and wiser he wouldn’t have listened to anything a stranger trespassing in his back garden was saying and would have swiftly called the appropriate authorities instead. However, San is nine and bored and home alone and the mystery of the boy’s appearance is quickly beginning to outweigh his initial fear of suffering a gruesome death at the hands of a potential home invader, so he does what any other nine-year-old boy would do and slowly steps out from behind the door.

“Sorry for scaring you, dude. I didn’t know you could hear me,” the boy says, running a hand a bit sheepishly through his hair. The first thought that crosses San’s mind, not very helpful but much more significant than he could ever realise at the time, is that this is the prettiest boy he’s seen in his life. He’s not much taller than San and looks about the same age, but he can immediately tell that he’s slimmer and more finely-boned, with small, delicate features and a flush of dark hair set against amber skin. His eyes are a warm brown when they meet San’s, soft beneath the full heat of the midday sun.

“What are you doing in my garden?” San asks, louder than entirely necessary considering the other boy is standing in front of him and there’s no-one else around. His prettiness is upsetting to San in a way he can’t pinpoint, which makes that upset sour into an aggravation coloured with a little embarrassment, forcing his words out harsher and an angry blush to his cheeks. (It’s the same way he sometimes feels around his friends on the football team or his favourite K-pop idols, although he won’t understand it for a few years yet).

“Just – hanging out, I guess. I didn’t know it was your garden, sorry.” The boy shrugs, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his shorts. San frowns, kicking at the grass beneath his feet and wondering if his mum will be home soon.

“Well, it _is_ my garden. And I was in the middle of a game before you showed up.”

The boy stares at him carefully, like he can’t quite make his mind up about him. “Uh – sorry.”

This time, it’s San’s turn to shrug. “It’s okay,” he says, a little petulantly. “I’m San,” he adds after a moment, pausing before sticking out a hand for him to shake. It was polite, his dad had taught him, especially when meeting strangers. The boy blinks down at it, mouth open in a miniature ‘o’.

“I’m Yeosang. Kang Yeosang,” he replies eventually, bowing instead of taking San’s hand which he thinks is a bit weird because nobody their age bows to each other yet, but whatever. “Sorry for invading your garden.”

“That’s okay.”

There’s a moment where the two of them stand in silence, avoiding eye contact and shifting from foot to foot. San rubs absently at the bridge of his nose, wondering if his mum put enough sunscreen on it earlier, then, because he’s nine and he can’t stand awkward silences, he says –

“Do you want to join in with my game? It was kind of boring by myself anyway.”

Yeosang looks up at him and grins, and that’s all the invitation San needs.

As it turns out, he’s pretty good at playing idols. He can sing almost any song San asks him to and his dancing is much better than his, which makes San jealous for a few short moments before Yeosang offers to teach him the choreography to a SHINee song and he forgets all about it in favour of jumping around the garden like Taemin. By the time San’s mum returns, a plate of kimbap from the corner shop in her hands, they’ve moved onto a high-tempo medley of Girl’s Generation’s greatest hits. 

“Sannie!” she calls, waving at him as she navigates her way down the garden path. San turns to grin back at her, missing the way Yeosang falls still beside him.

“Are you okay, honey?” she asks, pressing a palm against his forehead once she reaches the end of the garden. San nods enthusiastically, lunging for a roll and pouting when his mum lifts the plate up out of his reach. “Sit down for lunch please, Sannie; you’ll get indigestion. And you must be tired, dancing around all by yourself like that.”

San frowns, pausing in a crouch and spinning to face Yeosang. The other boy is leaning against the tree again, digging his fingernails into the bark and staring down at the grass with a strange expression on his face. What was his mum talking about, by himself?

“But mum, I was playing with Yeosang, look,” he says, tugging at her shirt-sleeve as she takes a bite of a kimbap roll. She glances around the garden for a moment before her gaze returns to San, watching him wordlessly while she chews.

“Who’s Yeosang, sweetie?” she asks, swallowing and offering him the plate. San just scoffs and shoves a whole roll into his mouth, chewing it in a few eager bites.

“He’s right _there_ , look,” San says, pointing to beneath the persimmon tree, but Yeosang just stares at him, silent and a little sad-looking. His mum laughs as she peers good-naturedly in the direction of San’s outstretched arm, a hand held against her forehead against the glare of the sun.

“Ah, I see, Sannie,” she laughs, but he can tell she doesn’t see by the way her eyes slide right over Yeosang. San’s frown deepens, not able to understand why his mum was ignoring the other boy like this; was she pulling one of those weird adult jokes that he was too young to understand?

“But mum, I was playing with him when you came back from the shops, didn’t you see? He showed up when you left and he thought I couldn’t hear him but I did because he was kind of rude, and I thought he was going to kidnap me because I’ve never seen him before but he’s actually really cool and knows loads of things about dancing, honestly!”

For a long, silent moment, San’s mum stares down at him, hands white-knuckled where they grip the ceramic rim of the plate. Then her eyes flash with understanding and she smiles, looking a little relieved. “Oh, an imaginary friend, how nice!” she says, ruffling his hair. “Although you’re almost ten; don’t you think you’re a bit old now, Sannie?”

San wants to argue with her, wants to stand up and march over to where Yeosang is slumped against the tree-trunk and wave his hands in front of her face and say _here, look, can’t you see this strange boy stood right in front of you,_ but something tells him that it would be pointless, that his mum has already made up her mind and that, for some mysterious reason, Yeosang is completely invisible to her. He eats the rest of his lunch in a furious silence, sending charged glances in Yeosang’s direction which go steadfastly ignored.

“Why can’t she see you?” San demands, once lunch is finished and he promises to play nicely while his mum gets started on the laundry. Yeosang shrugs, having the decency to at least look apologetic after making San look like a big dummy.

“Sorry, dude, I should have said something. I just – I mean, _you_ can see me, and I thought maybe…”

He trails off, kicking the grass a little violently. Inside, San can hear his mum singing along to an old trot song as she folds clothes, her voice loud and tuneless.

“And why do you talk so funny?” San adds, pouting down at his feet. Yeosang frowns, foot stilling mid-kick.

“Well, I _am_ …” he pauses, horror dawning on his face as he grabs at his t-shirt. “Wait, hold on. How old do I look to you?”

San shrugs, a little moody. If Yeosang’s trying to show off about how old and cool he is then San really isn’t interested. Honestly. “I dunno, my age?”

“And how old are you?” he presses, eyes wide and a bit desperate-looking.

“Nine. Almost ten!”

“Right,” Yeosang says flatly, expression falling eerily neutral. San blinks up at him for a moment, wondering if he’s said something to upset him; maybe he gets funny about ages like adults sometimes do. It’s late afternoon now and the sun shines down on them from behind a row of terraced houses, half-hidden by serrated roof-tiles and chimneys.

“San,” he says after a beat of strange, terse silence, voice coming out thin and reedy. “I’m gonna tell you something now, and you might think I’m crazy but I promise you it’s true. I just need you to listen.”

San pouts, fiddling with his fingers and wondering if they could go back to playing their game again, bored with all this conversation. Yeosang shivers, which he thinks is weird because it’s not at all cold.

“I’m –” he closes his eyes as his voice sticks in his throat, swallowing and trying again, “I’m not really… real. I don’t think. I mean – I died, like, ten years ago, maybe?”

For a moment, neither of them say a word. San thinks he can hear each individual breath Yeosang takes, sharp and pained, which doesn’t make any sense if he’s really – dead. Muscle memory, maybe.

“So you’re a… ghost?” San asks eventually, his voice quiet and recalcitrant. Yeosang blinks up at him, eyes flashing with – something, before he’s smiling a little shakily back at him. The leaves of the persimmon tree rustle noisily behind him, dappled with what remains of the afternoon sun.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am. I think that’s why your mum can’t see me.”

San pauses, then shrugs, rocking thoughtfully back and forth from heel to toe. He’d always thought ghosts were supposed to be mean and scary and generally evil, like in the films he’d watched with his friends at sleepovers in secret, but Yeosang was nice and soft-spoken and had spent most of the afternoon teaching him K-pop choreography, so.

“You’re not gonna hurt me, are you?” San asks, just to make sure. Yeosang smiles crookedly down at him and shakes his head once, twice. “Then, ok. That’s fine. You can live in my garden if you want; I won’t tell anyone.”

Yeosang’s mouth opens then closes again, no words coming out, but his eyes look a little misty when San peers curiously into them, wondering what’s wrong with him now. _Can ghosts even cry_ , San thinks to himself as Yeosang sniffs a bit wetly, rubbing at the soft skin beneath his eyes. “Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat. “It’s just – it’s been a long time since anyone’s talked to me. Or been able to see me.”

“S’ok,” San says, already impatient to resume their abandoned game. “Do you know any Big Bang?”

They spend the rest of the afternoon like that, dancing to every song San can think of and then some of Yeosang’s own favourites, his dubious corporeal existence temporarily forgotten in favour of an enthusiastic rendition of BoA’s newest releases. San’s mum finally emerges from the back door to herd him inside when the sun sinks beneath the horizon, the sky ablaze with the soft red hues of a summer sunset, and San pouts at Yeosang, waving him a goodbye that he hopes doesn’t look too conspicuous, but as his mum distracts herself with getting dinner ready he turns back towards the persimmon tree, smiling and mouthing _I’ll see you soon_ to the figure stood beneath its leaves, faint in the growing shadow of evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from PUNISHER by PHOEBE BRIDGERS because i am a HOMOSEXUAL


	2. 'cause even if i could

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lesbian hwang yeji cos i said so innit

When Hongjoong had offered to drive him to work that morning, looking at him with an expression of such unbearable pity that San had almost felt compelled to gouge his own eyeballs out so he no longer had to see it, he’d told himself that it couldn’t be that bad. His work is only a short twenty minutes away, barely enough time to justify the drive; and anyway, it was the first time he’d seen his best friend since he came home from university a few days ago. He’d feel bad if he refused. As Hongjoong switches lanes at a speed he’s sure is highly inappropriate given the amount of morning traffic on the roads, swerving sharply to the right with no sign of indication, San realises how utterly wrong he had been. Behind them, a horn blares angrily.

“Ah, sorry about that,” Hongjoong trills, reaching a sparkly-nailed hand out to turn the volume down on whatever angry dissonant noise he’d been trying to pass off as music. San balks, gripping the car door a little more firmly and wondering once more how and why Hongjoong had been granted a licence at all, given that he was widely considered a menace to the roads of South Korea and would probably someday end up costing the taxpayer more than he’s reasonably worth. If there’s one thing Hongjoong lives to affirm, San thinks glumly, looking sideways at the mullet he’d started growing since the last time he’d visited home, it’s every gay stereotype in existence.

“Just get me there in one piece,” San gripes, fiddling with the radio dials until something upbeat and poppy comes on. Hongjoong rolls his eyes and takes a left turn.

“Aw, so eager,” he says, stopping at a red light and chewing absently at his thumbnail, an old habit he’d never managed to break. San snorts, listening as the radio anchor announces the winner to some banal phone-in competition they’d apparently been running. “Glad to see my favourite little worker’s still not been ground down beneath the cogs of the capitalist machine.”

San pulls a face, feigning annoyance even though he knows Hongjoong only does it to wind him up. “Yeah, whatever, Castro – just know that if you crash with me in the car and I end up in chunks on the side of the road _you_ have to be the one to tell my work about it, although I think Yunho would probably start crying,” he says, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his bottom lip. “And he’s way too pretty to cry.”

“Oh?” Hongjoong bites back, grinning impishly at San, and yeah, fuck, he really shouldn’t have said anything at all, because this is the reason he’s travelling dangerous speeds in the passenger seat of his best friend’s shitty Peugeot in the first place and now Hongjoong definitely isn’t going to shut up. Great. San turns the radio volume up several notches and screws his eyes shut.

“San. Saaan. Sannie. Choi San, please look at me.”

They sit in terse silence for a moment, the radio anchor announcing the next song with obnoxious flare, then –

“I know I promised I wouldn’t mention it and I really wouldn’t, honestly, but I’m _worried_. We’re all worried! Wooyoung thinks you’ve become a priest or something, said he’d take a train down here and sort it out himself if you weren’t getting laid within the next month.”

San ignores him, hums loudly along to the song even though he’s never heard it before. “Are you staging an intervention, Kim Hongjoong?”

“Fuck off, I’m just trying to look out for you,” Hongjoong replies, voice turning baleful, which has San sighing because it always fucking works.

“I know,” San replies, opening his eyes to see Hongjoong stealing doe-eyed glances at him as he navigates a particularly busy junction, indicator ticking loudly as he idles behind the cars queued in front. San sees the thin line of concern snaking between his friend’s brows, watches him worry his bottom lip between his teeth as he pretends to study the polish on his fingernails, and slumps back into his seat as guilt washes unpleasantly over him. It’s not Hongjoong’s fault things are like this – God knows he’s tried hard enough to set him up with probably every gay twenty-something in the south-eastern Korean Peninsula – but, as angsty and childish as it sounds, San knows he just wouldn’t understand. Like, what was he even supposed to say? _Sorry, Hongjoong, I’m kind of in love with this guy who’s been dead for twenty years and I have been since I was about thirteen? And you can’t meet him because I’m the only one who can hear or see him, and he can’t touch me because he’s a fucking ghost, but apart from that it’s going great, thanks!_

“I just want to see you happy, San,” Hongjoong says softly, and fuck, does San feel bad now. The car in front of them finally pulls out and Hongjoong revs the engine, following before they meet any more traffic. “Like when I met Seonghwa –”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t need to tell me,” San says, waving him off a little brusquely to compensate for the guilt gnawing at his stomach. “You met at a gig and gay little fireworks exploded when you kissed and he’s, like, the nicest guy _ever_. I get it, I need to go out more.” Maybe he’s being cruel but Hongjoong is sappy and homosexual and has a serious dramatic flair, had always waxed lyrical about his high-school crushes and kept poetry that he wrote about them in a notebook by his bed. San would tease him more often about it, except now he’s on track to graduate with honours from a university in Seoul with his sexy, equally pretentious boyfriend who sings the bridges to his raps and models for indie arthouse magazines in his spare time, and San’s still living out of his childhood bedroom and working at a supermarket in his sleepy rural hometown, so.

“I was _going to say_ that I get it, it was hard for me too when I first met Seonghwa,” Hongjoong glares, slowing down as he weaves through throngs of early-morning shoppers wandering down the town’s main thoroughfare. San pouts, blowing him an apologetic kiss, and Hongjoong pretends to catch it, tucking it into the pocket of his button-down shirt. “Being gay in Korea is shit sometimes, I know, and it’s hard to let people in, but,” Hongjoong pauses, glancing over his shoulder as he pulls in beside the kerb, “you have to do it. Let people in, I mean. At some point.”

San glances down at the time on his lockscreen and groans internally when he sees he’s already ten minutes late, which is ridiculous because Hongjoong drives like a fucking madman, but as his best friend pulls the handbrake and turns wide, imploring eyes onto him he senses that this conversation isn’t over yet. If he angles himself right he can just make out the doors to the supermarket he works in, can see the steady stream of people moving in and out with trolleys and plastic bags full of shopping.

“If it’s about coming out –”

“It’s not,” San says firmly.

“Well, if it _is_ , I really don’t think your parents would have a problem. I know; it’s different for me, I don’t live with them – but they were fine with your cousin! And they – they worry too. I think,” Hongjoong adds, having the face to look at least a little guilty as San’s expression darkens.

“Are you talking to my parents about my love life now?” he asks around gritted teeth, fingernails digging into the stiff fabric of his work slacks. Here, sat in the passenger seat of someone else’s car because he can’t afford his own, wearing an obnoxiously coloured checkout assistant’s uniform and being pitied for having absolutely zero game by not just his best friend but also apparently his parents, San feels distinctly uncool. Hongjoong takes a deep, centring breath.

“I just feel like maybe you’re a bit – repressed,” he says, tripping quickly over the last word. San falls into an unresponsive slump against the car seat, willing this conversation and all iterations of it to be over. “Your parents love you, San, and I know – I know you don’t need to hear it from _me_ , but I’ve known them long enough. I just…” He trails off, gaze evasive as he searches for the right words. “I just don’t want you to hide from yourself, San. It’s, like – it’s not healthy.”

He’s fifteen minutes late, going on twenty. San really can’t think about any of this right now, not when it’s almost their busiest time of day and he’s sat having an impromptu therapy session with his best friend. “Great, thank you for the psychoanalysis, Freud, just what I needed before I clock in,” he bites, twisting to grab his work backpack from where he’d abandoned it on a back seat. “Now when I get reamed for showing up to work twenty minutes late I can rebut my manager with a little bit of conflict theory, that should go down well.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Hongjoong sighs reproachfully as San unstraps his seatbelt and shimmies out the door, drumming his fingers irately against the steering wheel. San pauses, his work bag hanging loosely from one shoulder, leaning against the car frame as he meets Hongjoong’s gaze.

“I know, and thank you, dude, really, but just – not right now. Please,” San says, expression falling serious enough for Hongjoong to let it go. His phone screen lights up – one new notification from his work groupchat – and he thinks he can feel the beginnings of a migraine eating away at his temples. “I’ll call you after work or something and we can talk about this, I promise, I just really have to go.”

Hongjoong smiles at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little sadly, and kicks the car into reverse, making shooing motions at San as he slams the passenger door shut. _I love you, call me_ , he mouths through the glass, and San makes stupid kissy faces at him as he pulls an illegal U-turn and heads back towards the residential suburbs, metaphorical dust cloud in his wake. _Repressed_ , San thinks scornfully to himself as he breezes through the automatic doors into the bright fluorescence of the supermarket entrance. _I’m not repressed_.

“Hi!” comes a voice from beside one of the checkouts, much too cheery for such a busy morning. San turns, meeting the full force of his manager’s gaze head on.

“You’re late!” Yunho grins, hands stilling where they’d been attaching reduced labels to almost out-of-date products. Behind the till, Jongho rolls his eyes.

“Ah, Yunho-ssi, sorry,” San says, eyes darting apologetically between the two. “Traffic.”

Yunho’s grin only grows brighter, which San hadn’t thought possible. “No worries! Just – shoot me a text next time, yeah?” he says, throwing up finger-guns. Jongho closes his eyes, cringing silently in place. “Not that – not that you would text _me_ , haha, I meant the groupchat. Because I don’t have your number. Not that I’m asking for your number; that would be inappropriate in my position as manager –”

“I’m gonna drop this off in the back, yeah?” San says, motioning to his bag and biting down a smile. Yunho nods, his grin now slightly panicked at the edges, the beginnings of a blush creeping up the tan skin of his neck. _Cute_ , San thinks coquettishly, before turning on his heel to head towards the staff room at the back of the shop. It’s a shame, really – Yunho’s a good guy, too. As he weaves through the aisles, dodging a small child dangling precariously off the edge of his mum’s trolley, he can hear Jongho’s laughter echo across the linoleum shop floor.

“Good thing Yunho’s so whipped for you, you layabout,” Yeji snipes from one of the ratty sofas in the staff breakroom, when San shoulders his way in to dump his stuff and make sure he looks presentable enough smile and wave and pack shopping for the next six hours. San rolls his eyes at her as he pulls out a deodorant can, giving himself a once-over just to be sure. “Your shift started half an hour ago.”

“You keeping up with my rota, now?” he says, smoothing a hand down his garish purple uniform shirt and watching as she stabs her chopsticks into something leafy and green. She’s dressed in her civvies, having presumably just finished one of those night shifts she only signs on for because they pay double, bleached hair tied back in a thick, utilitarian plait. “Yeji-ah, I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t,” she smiles, snapping the lid back onto her plastic lunchbox and setting it on the coffee table in front of her. “I’m just keeping track of your poor work ethic so I have something to distract grandma with when she’s grilling me on my _lifestyle choices_ over Christmas dinner.”

San shoots her a look of sympathy and flops down on the sofa beside her, deciding that he may as well wait and begin on the hour at this point. His cousin, braver and wilier and just generally more impressive than he could ever hope to be, had kept the bargain they’d made to one another when they’d both confessed their sexualities as confused, awkward pre-teens, coming out to the entire extended family over her high-school graduation dinner. San’s parents had looked at one another, shocked, and Yeji’s father had stormed out of the restaurant, but she’d refused to back down, lips trembling as she explained that yes, she liked girls, she’d known for a long time now and she hoped that they could all please accept her for who she was. San had just stared miserably down at his plate, swallowing back the tears that threatened to drip down into his Caesar salad and saying nothing, his own graduation dinner having passed uneventfully the year before. It’s not like he’s scared, not exactly, and people do know – Yeji being the first, then Hongjoong, his childhood best friend, and Wooyoung, his first (and last) gay experiment, just to really make sure. And Yeosang, who’d just shrugged and said _yeah, me too dude, at least people are less shitty about it now_.

“Where’s your admirer, hyung? I thought he’d be trying to pester you into some work by now,” Yeji says, letting her head rest comfortably against San’s shoulder. He shrugs, bumping up against her cheekbone. 

“Yunho’s busy on tills with Jongho doing – something, I don’t know. I think he tried to get my number, though.”

“Uh, yeah,” Yeji says, shifting upright to flick him in the head and grinning when he yelps, rubbing at the offended temple. “Yunho-ssi really likes you, in case you hadn’t noticed, which – well. He wants to ask you out but he doesn’t know if you’re into guys.” 

San purses his lips, pretending to be deep in thought. Of course he’d noticed; he’s not blind. “Hmm. Sounds like his problem.”

“Yeah, or you could help him out a bit, San,” she says, bumping their shoulders roughly together, the lilt of her voice teasingly suggestive. San frowns down at his knees, eyebrows creasing pensively – it wasn’t like he hadn’t ever thought about it. Yunho’s hot and gay and single and seemingly into him for whatever reason, but –

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Yeji. I pride myself on maintaining professional workplace relationships with all my colleagues.”

“Oh, _come on_ , he’s obviously head-over-heels, it’s kind of embarrassing at this point. If I have to watch him run around after you like a lovesick idiot for much longer I’m gonna choke myself with a bag-for-life,” she whines, tugging dolefully at the sleeve of his shirt, and San’s about to say something, maybe snap at her for being so presumptuous, until –

“Who’s an idiot?”

Yunho stands against the threshold of the staffroom doorway, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his slacks, shirt already a little creased from the stresses of managing Namhae’s busiest local supermarket. He’s been here since opening, San guesses, pulling the graveyard shifts and long hours nobody else wants in between studying for something sciency at the local university, just smiling good-naturedly when people wonder aloud at his presumably non-existent work-life balance. Yeji grins, hauling herself and San upright where they’re connected at the elbow.

“This guy.” She elbows him in the side, making San wince unattractively. “For accepting a lift from the worst driver in South Korea.”

“Well, you’re here now,” Yunho says, gaze shifting towards San. He’s prettier when he smiles like this, San thinks faintly, younger and less worried-looking. Yeji glances between them, teeth running over her bottom lip, before shimmying out from behind the coffee table, grabbing her lunchbox and work satchel in one graceful movement. _Snake_ , San thinks, although there’s no venom behind it.

“I’ll be off then, Yunho-ssi,” she says, dipping into a shallow bow and wiggling her eyebrows lewdly at San as she rounds their manager’s back. He glowers at her, hoping the weight of his nonverbal glare communicates _fuck off_ saliently enough. For a beat neither of them speak, the silence between them pregnant and a shade awkward.

“I’m sorry for turning up late,” San says, just as Yunho starts, “about this morning.” They both blink at one another for a moment; San belatedly adds, “I’ll work an extra shift this week if you want. One of the shitty ones.”

Yunho sighs, paces a few steps forward into the room. “Ah, San, it’s okay. We’re overstaffed today anyway.”

San nods, eyes flitting from Yunho’s face back down to a nondescript patch of carpet beneath his feet. He hears Yunho shift from foot to foot, the stiff cant of his posture revealing a nervous caginess that only seems to settle within him around San. He’s wearing Vans, San notices absurdly, the white rubber toes scuffed and yellow with use. He wonders if he used to skate. “Look – about earlier,” Yunho begins again, “I’m really sorry if I – if I made you uncomfortable in any way. I don’t want to be – that is, I don’t expect things from you. Or anyone, y’know.”

San’s eyes lift to meet Yunho’s own, which are narrow and pinched at the corners with sobriety. _Cute_ , he thinks again, turning the word silently over on his tongue, because Yunho’s really hung up about this, isn’t he. “It’s cool, Yunho-ssi, don’t worry. I’m not gonna, like, report you or anything.” San runs a hand through his dark hair, watches Yunho watch the gesture. “And if you want my number you can just ask, you know.”

Yunho’s reaction is full-body, eyes blinking open and shut a few times as his jaw works silently. Then, with a bit too much enthusiasm to lean into the nonchalance he’d been trying for throughout their conversation, he reaches into his back pocket and unlocks his phone. “D’you want to swap, or…?” he trails off, watching as San grabs the phone out of his hands and punches his number in as a new contact, tracing his thumb softly over the spider-web of infinitesimal cracks mapping the bottom of the screen before handing it back.

“I’ll text you,” a wide-eyed Yunho tells San, who just smiles a little rakishly up at him, enjoying the attention. “We could go out, catch up after work or something?”

“Or something, Yunho-ssi,” San smiles as he breezes out of the staffroom and onto the shop floor, a little too light on his feet. It’s not quite a date, he thinks to himself as he unloads tins of perishables from crate to shelf, crouched down uncomfortably against the cold linoleum tiling, but still. It’s closer than he’s got since – well, since forever, if he doesn’t count the messy handjobs he and Wooyoung used to give each other behind the bleachers when they were dumb, horny fourteen-year-olds, which he doesn’t, so. A date, maybe.

It’s not like he really plans on pursuing something serious with Yunho, his dorky floor-manager who blushes like a virgin around him and had barely managed to pluck up the nerve to swap phone numbers – it’s not like he even really _likes_ Yunho all that much. It’s just easier, when he thinks about Hongjoong’s pity and Yeji’s nagging and the weight of his parents’ expectations hanging silent and suffocating over his head. It just makes sense to accept, he thinks to himself on the bus home, sweaty forehead pressed up against the glass. That’s all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i saw this edit of yeji and san on twitter and i think it was meant to be shippy but all i saw was lesbian-gay besties. anyway yeji san cousins


End file.
